


Number Game

by Takophin



Series: Kinky Pair Series [2]
Category: Tennis no Oujisama | Prince of Tennis
Genre: M/M, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-08
Updated: 2016-06-08
Packaged: 2018-07-13 02:01:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7134023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Takophin/pseuds/Takophin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Less is more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Number Game

A racquet, two tennis balls, three steps…Kirihara might not be a genius in Mathematics, but he knew how to do simple calculation.

"One." Kirihara pointed at the black splotch on his wrist.

Kirihara had never liked Mathematics that much. He _loathed_ it now.

"Two," His index finger moved several distances up to stop at a similar looking blemish on his skin, only this one is red. He flipped his arm and pointed at the midsection of his lower arm. "Three." He hissed.

"Total three. That should be all." Kirihara declared with a scoff, his face grimacing in a mix of embarrassment and annoyance. He could not understand why his senior made him do this on weekly basis. He did this to himself, he did not need to count how many marks he had left behind.

"Four"

"What?" Kirihara furrowed his eyebrows.

"You missed the one right below your elbow. It has not healed completely." Yanagi noted impassively as he leaned against the door. Kirihara hated his senior and his thoroughness in doing everything and whatever he was subjecting him to now.

"Fine. Four. Happy?" Kirihara snapped, yanking the sleeve of his jersey down to cover the entire length. After doing it for weeks already, he still could not understand Yanagi's obsession on the number of bruises he had. If it's only about the number, three (or four as he insisted) was his lowest record yet. In fact, the number had been on a declining streak for almost three consecutive weeks now. Shouldn't Yanagi be happy then, and get this over with?

No. Yanagi was still standing there, quietly observing him behind closed lids. It unnerved Kirihara how this always happened every single time and he _knew_ it would. He still faithfully followed him to the locker room anyway, irrationally abandoning the ongoing practice match he was engaged in. What happened inside was automatic, Yanagi let Kirihara enter first, he closed the door, Kirihara rolled up the jersey's sleeve covering his left arm, then he began. _One, two, three…_

Yanagi took a step away from the door towards Kirihara. Then another. Kirihara groaned, his eyes shut. He knew what would happen next. But no matter how much he prepared himself, it would still happen. He hated himself for letting it happen each and every time.

"Four." The scornful tone of Yanagi's whisper next to his ear brought shiver down Kirihara's body. Kirihara balled his palm to a tight fist. He _would_ contain it this time round.

"What happened to twenty?" Why did Yanagi have to bring up his worst record? "Did you finally lose it and hit someone else?" Yanagi's tone was cold, mercilessly jabbing him, pushing all his buttons one by one.

Kirihara shook his head, his eyes firmly shut. No matter how good Yanagi was with his words, he himself knew the truth, and he knew he had _it_ contained all the time.

_Except here_.

"Or perhaps," Yanagi suddenly seized Kirihara's right wrist, jolting him in surprise. Kirihara hesitantly followed Yanagi's movement as the other male brought his other hand to caress his clothed arm, down from Kirihara's right shoulder all the way to the tip of his fingers. Breathe in, breathe out. Kirihara managed to give no reaction other than an involuntary shudder at the unexpected intimacy.

With his hands still holding up Kirihara's, Yanagi bent his head down and whispered next to Kirihara's ear. "Silly me. I actually thought that you would hurt yourself somewhere else. Even if you do, surely you won't choose a place so obvious?"

That made his stomach lurch. Kirihara wrestled his right hand away, a move he deeply regretted afterwards. He was inadvertently affirming Yanagi's deduction. Fuck, he was losing ground again. The only way to get up was to- no, he could not. Kirihara could feel blood rushing to his eyes, his heartbeat beating madly. Kirihara snapped his left hand around his right wrist, trembling as he tried to keep right hand where it was. He could not resort to this every single fucking time!

Yanagi straightened his posture and stared Kirihara down. "Hit me." He opened his perpetually closed eyes, further pushing the already agitated Kirihara over the edge. "Otherwise I'll strip you down and find your new hiding spot."

The last thing Kirihara recalled before his conscience was taken over by hot, untamed red was the nasty sound of bones clashing as his right fist smashed Yanagi's temple.

Kirihara was burning inside. His vision was swirling and red and _not enough red_. His hands were frantically swinging, cracking, breaking something, drawing more _red_. His hands were not enough. His legs were also in action, slamming into something soft and hard at the same time. That whimper of misery, _oh_ , how melodious it was to hear that! _More! MORE-!_

Suddenly the malicious red cloud dissipated from his mind, letting him think clearly once again. Kirihara blinked. He was on his knees, one of his hand twisted behind and his back was pressured down. "Time's up." Someone said. Who…? Kirihara turned his head to the source of the voice.

Yanagi.

A rush of information flooded Kirihara's mind and suddenly the situation made sense. Kirihara slammed his fist onto the ground. He lost it, _AGAIN!_

He did not know when, but Yanagi had released his hand and wordlessly left the locker room at some point. He was too frustrated to care what was happening around him. He did not even notice that he was alone, kneeling in the locker room until someone called out. "Kirihara-buchou, what are you doing?"

Kirihara looked up. It was the member he was playing with before all this shit happened. "Just wait for me in the court. I'll be there shortly." Kirihara dismissed him.

Once he was alone again in the room, Kirihara put one foot on the ground, propelling himself to a standing position. He was only halfway up when a sharp sting to his abdomen brought him back on one knee. _Agh!_ Kirihara wrapped his hand around his stomach, pressing his palm against the most distinct source of the pain. It was fine during tennis. He had overexerted himself in whatever his devil self had done just now. Kirihara gritted his teeth to prevent any tell-tale noise from involuntarily escaping his lips.

Forcing himself up despite his stomach's stinging protest, he limped his way to the bathroom several steps away. He stood before the sink mirror staring at his reflection. His shoulder raising up and down laboriously and his hair looked more unkempt than it already was. Basically, he looked like he had just been through a brawl, and in a way he had, Kirihara glared at his reflection. _Because you're too weak to keep it in!_

He lifted both his jersey and his shirt up to his chest level. On the area that was throbbing badly were three very dark purple splotches. He took a deep breath. _'One, two, three…'_ Kirihara began counting absentmindedly. He detested this to hell and back, yet he found himself doing it every single time.

Nine, plus the four on his arm which brings it to…Kirihara paused for a while, counting on his fingers. Thirteen.

Kirihara shook his head. He should not spend too much time lest he roused unnecessary suspicions. He fixed his shirt and his jersey back, the two layers provided impenetrable shield to the hideous marks behind. He also made sure the sleeve on his left arm was properly back in place.

He had only taken one step away when the pain shot up to his knees, causing him to lurch forward. The only thing that kept him from slamming the floor face first was his right hand that managed to perch strongly onto the sink in time.

Not only it was difficult to deal a blow effectively, it was also doing him a disfavor in school. Stomach was definitely out of option next time round, Kirihara noted to himself grimly. But now he needed another new limb or it's back to his left arm. His right arm was definitely out. Perhaps his legs? But he needed them for tennis. His head? He still needed whatever brain cells he had hidden behind that skull of his.

As long as Yanagi came to check on him weekly, it's either that, or he would start beating his teammates again. Kirihara groaned, trying his best to ignore the pain as he made his way out. He would figure that out later. He still had captain responsibility to attend to.

* * *

A hit to the temple and a kick to his abdomen. The worst being the hit to his shoulder which was already damaged from their previous encounter, making a total of three. Yanagi stared at his naked upper torso in the mirror. His two hands were free from any blemishes save from the jarring scar above his left elbow. In stark contrast, both his front and back were covered in discolorations the size of someone's fist or foot, most had turned greenish yellow. It looked as if Yanagi had a different skin tone for his torso as compared to the rest of his limbs.

' _One, two, three…'_ He counted mentally. Nine greenish ones, five dark black ones, and four violent red. With the addition of three fresh ones he had just gotten, it made up a total of twenty one.

It would have been more had Kirihara not forcefully subdue as much rage as possible prior to their meeting. Yanagi knew those 'four' were nothing but a show, at best a display of Kirihara's slip in his attempt of fooling him.

And this need of fooling him came from his inability to control his inner demon, which would not be the case had Yanagi not given _it_ birth and bred _it_ to such extent-

Yanagi took a deep breath. He knew what to do when this thing built up inside him.

Raising his right fist, he brought it down swiftly to strike his left arm. His brain recognized the attack simultaneously with the cracking sound it had made, alerting him of the unnatural assault with sharp jolting pain. The tolerance he had built from previous experience had dulled the stringing to a mere uncomfortable throb. He hit the same spot again, and again, and again, until his left arm felt nothing but pain.

Twenty two.

Yanagi slipped his short-sleeved PE shirt on. Back then, he was fortunate that the teacher allowed him to keep his tennis jersey on during sports lesson. No such luck now. Thankfully the sleeve was long enough to cover his scar.

Yanagi looked at his reflection once again, his eyes fixated at the freshly assaulted area on his left arm, the prickling aftermath of the pain still coursing through his veins albeit less intensely.

Currently zero on his arm. Yanagi knew it would become one soon, one that he could easily justify by unjustly blaming sports.

But never twenty two.


End file.
